


The Gallery Ghost

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25609966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: in which John performs an exorcism
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	The Gallery Ghost

“Dead. You? Yes,” he said, suspecting that he was mangling the pronunciation. “Death, yes? Understand? You are dead. Yes?”

Then, worried that, in his frustration, he was coming off a bit aggro, he added, slipping back into English, “Er. Sorry about that, by the way. Bit of a pisser. Still, it is what it is.”

The ghost, a plump, spectacled woman of about seventy, rolled her eyes and went back to mopping the floor.

Defeated and tired as all fuck, John sat down on the polished wood with a huff, making the candles arranged in a circle around him flicker. “Bollocks.”

“John, pack it in. You’re crap with any language what ain’t dead or demonic; always have been. And I wanna go to bed,” Chas yawned from the corner of the otherwise empty gallery in which he’d sequestered himself with a novel, a set of earphones, and a flask.

No real reason for him to be there, but every now and then he took it into his head that John needed backup. Never seemed to happen when John _actually_ needed backup; rather, such occasions usually aligned with the natural ebb and flow of marital harmony in the Chandler residence. One of life’s little mysteries.

“Can’t you just chuck a crucifix at her and tell her to fuck off?” Chas went on, stretching.

Shooting him a dirty look, John said, “If it was that easy, I wouldn’t still be sitting here five hours after closing time, my bumcheeks frozen solid, and feeling like the world’s biggest twat, would I? Even if dead folk did respond to physical threats, which, arsehole, they very much do not, what good would a crucifix do? She’s from Iran. It’s one of the only things about her I’ve been able to work out.”

Chas blinked sleepily at him. “So? Don’t they have crucifixes in Iran?”

“You… that… _yes_ , fuckhead, they have crucifixes in Iran. But waving one about ain’t gonna mean fuck-all to her, is it? She’s Islamic, you turnip.”

“Oh. Hmm. What’s their version of a crucifix?”

Closing his eyes in despair, John said, “Take a nap, Chas. I’ll let you know when I have a breakthrough.”

The ghost glanced at Chas and muttered something, shaking her head. One word caught John’s attention and he stood up, feverishly flicking through the motheaten second-hand Arabic-English dictionary he’d nicked on the way over. It was old enough that neither ‘cellphone’ nor ‘computer’ were featured. “Wait, wait – ‘husband’! That’s what you said, love, yeah? You had a husband? Or… or maybe you think Chas is my husband? Or you think he’d make a lousy husband? Which you’re very much right about.”

“Oi!”

“Shaddap, you.”

When she didn’t reply, John ran his fingers through his hair, noting that it was due for a wash.

So was the rest of him, come to think of it. Before Lance, one of the gallery’s security guards and an old mate, had called to beg for his help, he’d been fresh off the train following a trip to Kielder. Not fresh, really. Not after a week spent traipsing around in the woods looking for a boy allegedly kidnapped by a coven of witches, only to find that he’d actually run off to Paris with his girlfriend.

Long story short; had John’s soul still been his legal property, he’d have happily sold it for a clean undershirt, and had the gallery been open to the public, he’d probably not have been allowed in until he went and dunked himself in the nearest pond a few times.

“Okay,” he said, setting his shoulders. “Back to basics. Let’s try this again.”

Returning to the piles of notes collected around him like Autumn leaves, he hunted down the phrase he was looking for and said something that he hoped sounded like, “Please tell me your story.”

Because that was all they wanted, usually; the ones who stuck around. Just to be listened to. Sure, you got the odd nasty git, all teeth and glowing red eyes, but Armita – her name, the one other thing he’d learned about her in the last five hours – was short, wrinkled, tired-looking, and seemingly had no concerns beyond getting the gallery floor clean enough to eat your dinner off.

Which.... hmm. Maybe that, in itself, was a clue.

Most ghosts haunted their own homes, or the homes of their loved ones, or their favourite pub. He could count on one hand the number he’d met who willingly haunted the place they’d earned their daily bread. Who the fuck would want to spend the afterlife at work? Yet here she was, diligently mopping away, despite having been dead for at least fifteen years if he’d judged the model of that mop correctly.

Had she died here? Had she been _murdered_ here? Was he going to be asked to be her agent of vengeance, hunting down whatever bastard had put her in the ground?

Suddenly, she spoke again, still not looking at him.

“Um, hang on… ‘no’… ‘fable’, ‘tale’, ‘novel’… ‘story’,” he said, peering at the phrasebook, before clumsily asking her, “You have no story to tell me? Your story is nothing?”

“Relatable,” muttered Chas. “Maybe she had a really boring life, mate. It happens. We’re not all like you, you know.”

John gestured to the surrounding masterpieces. “Then why’s she hanging around here rather than making her daughter-in-law’s kitchen lights flicker on and off every time she gets the tea wrong? Tell me that, smartarse.”

Finally, with an irritated grunt, Armita straightened up and glanced his way. Speaking slow and loud, as though to an infant, she said in English, “I… have… no… story… for… _you_. Not for you. Go away, rude swearing boy.”

She punctuated her command by giving him a gentle poke with the dry end of her mop.

Chas threw his head back and cackled. “That’s you in your place, eh? Love it!”

Wanker.

Sighing, John said, first in English then in clumsy Arabic, “The problem, duck, is that you’re scaring people. In the last six months, twelve visitors have said that this gallery’s haunted. It’s starting to attract the tabloids and conspiracy nutters. And normally I wouldn’t give a shit – who cares about a few spooked tourists – but sooner or later, they’re gonna bring in some young moron of a wannabe exorcist who’ll try to get rid of you and might accidentally end up hurting himself or opening a portal to Hell in the process. It’ll get messy. Trust me; this sort of shit always does. So it’s much better for everyone if you just tell me what you want now. Then we can work out a deal and you can be on your way. Understand?”

“Lotta fuss over nothing, in my humble opinion,” Chas opined from his corner. “Who even goes to galleries anymore? You can see it all on Wikipedia nowadays; our Geraldine showed me on her phone. And it’s free!”

“Would you please shut up?” John hissed.

Armita had been standing with her arms folded, silent as she processed his words. Then, nodding, she said, “Understand. Yes. I do.”

“You do?” he said, hopefully.

“Yes. You are the… word, word… what is it? Ah! Yes. The police. You are the police.”

Bolting upright, eyes bulging, he gasped, “I bloody well _am not_!”

A small, impish smile blossomed on her face and she pointed a finger at him. “Yes! You are the ghost police. Policing of the ghosts.”

Chas’s shoulders were shaking. “I – _snrt_ – I am so fucking glad I got to be here for this. Thank you, baby Jesus.”

With exaggerated movements, Armita held out her hands, wrists together. “Time to arrest Armita, hmm? Lock me up and take me to the ghost jail? Eh? Feels good, bullying poor old Armita, yes? Eh?”

“ _Chas_!” he shouted, standing up and dusting his trousers off. “We are _leaving_! Never been so insulted in all my life. The police. Jesus.”

“I mean, she’s got a point, John,” he managed through a waterfall of giggles. “You show up where she works with your notebooks and your pens and you start barking questions at her…”

“I was not ‘barking’! I was being a perfect fucking gentleman.”

“… and now you’re telling her she’s gonna be chucked out because she’s making the tourists uncomfortable. You sort of _are_ the ghost police, mate.”

“Ghost police!” Armita chimed in, grinning, and Chas saluted her.

“Oh, sod both of you. Dunno why I bother,” John said, and stalked out of the room, snatching his trenchcoat on the way.

“Sorry about him, love,” he heard Chas say as the door swung shut. “Always gets snippy when he’s not had dinner.”

0

When he returned twenty minutes later, with two hot chocolates and a cheese pizza, he found Chas leaning against a statue of a naked bloke while Armita lectured in front of a series of garish blue and yellow splats that might, conceivably, have represented a landscape. John wasn’t really into painting. But there was a cow, and you got cows in landscapes, so.

“Not his best work,” she was saying. “It’s immature. Awkward. But it speaks to the soul, I find. Now, this over here is…”

“You like art, then?” John interrupted, plodding in and setting down his dinner.

She nodded. “My grandmother, she liked to sculpt with clay. Not famous, but very good. And my father work in the Art Department at Tehran University. I take… took lessons in Tehran and here for many years. Distance learning. You?”

“Nah. Didn’t go in for higher education, me. I read a fair bit, though. And Chas here did night classes a few years ago.”

“I learned French,” he said, proudly.

She brightened and spoke several fast sentences in French, leaving him blinking.

“Er. Beginner’s French. I can order an omelette, that sort of thing.”

John sat down cross-legged on the floor once again and took a slice from the pizza box. “Alright, Armita. Here’s my take. You don’t wanna listen, you don’t gotta listen. You tell me to fuck off, I’ll fuck off and never bother you again. Alright? But hear me out first.”

Again, she nodded, hesitant this time.

He bit, chewed, swallowed. “You must want something. All ghosts want something. Most of the time, there’s something they wanna say, or confess, or brag about. But maybe not you. So what _do_ you want?”

“You can tell him,” Chas told her in that soft and earnest voice that had once made John consider falling in love with him. “He’s a good person. Even when he’s a little shit.”

She crossed the floor and inspected him, squinting. The beginnings of cataracts, he noticed. “Hmm. Constantine. I know of Constantine. Other ghosts – they talk. Gossip. _Lots_ of interesting gossip about you.”

Shit. Shit.

Smiling tightly, he said, “Reputation’s a nasty thing, innit?”

Her mop disappeared, as did her janitorial uniform, replaced with a long grey skirt and a blue blouse. Her face lost twenty years, her grey hair turned black, and she took his hand and shook it slowly. “Lucky for you, Mister Perfect Fucking Gentleman, Armita does not listen to gossipers. I think perhaps we can be friends, hmm? Because yes, yes, I want something. You are right. Clever man. Come.”

0

She led them through a dozen rooms before coming to a halt. “Here. This one.”

John studied the painting she was pointing at and concluded, “Yep. That sure is a painting. Lots of purple. Big frame. Very nice. Expensive, I’ll bet.”

Chas tutted. “Fuck’s sake, John. It’s priceless.”

“No,” said Armita, glaring at it. “It is not. It is a forgery.”

The temperature plummeted, as it tended to when ghosts got angry. John shivered.

She went on, speaking toward the painting with the tone and manner of a general studying an enemy flag planted in the desecrated corpse of his sovereign: “I told them, you know. I told everyone! But no one believed me. Constantine – art is my life. Understand? It is my great love. When I arrived in England, I had an uncle already here. He offered me job at a desk. A good job. Everyone said so. I could have had a real career. But I say: ‘No’. Because I wanted to give my life to art. And eventually, I realised that I am not my grandmother. I had no talent. No real skill. So I come to the gallery and I mop the floors. Even though the money is small and the people are always rude. Just because I love art and I want to be surrounded by art forever. Have you ever loved like that? Loved something _so much_ it made you stupid?”

A memory flashed through his mind – the first time he’d practiced magic, felt the trickster tingle in his fingertips and known he was doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah. I have.”

“So you understand. Armita works in gallery, works for years, while all the others buying homes and having babies. Every spare second, I look at the paintings, I study them, I memorise them. When no one is listening, I talk to them. By the time I died, I know them better than the curators. They are like my children.”

Her expression, which had grown wistful, turned stormy. “You don’t forget the faces of your children.”

“What happened, love?”

Arms behind her back, she started to pace, her words coming faster and faster. “One day, I come in, I come to this room, and I see. This painting is gone! Gone! And this ugly thing is in its place. Someone has come in, in the night, and _stolen_ one of my children. I run to my manager in tears, and you know what she says? She asks if I am on drugs! Me! So then I go to her manager, and he goes to look at the painting, and you know what he says? That I am wrong! That it is the same! I plead, I beg him to call in the experts, have them look at it. But he does not believe me. No one believes me. So for ten years, every day I come to work, I have to gaze upon this _filthy lie_.”

The pain in her voice was so raw, so real, that John found himself squirming as he recalled those handful of years when he’d earned a few quid on the side by helping a mate touch up forgeries to sell to gullible tourists.

“But why stay here after you died?” Chas asked. “If seeing it upsets you so much, why not just leave?”

She seized his arm, her eyes wide and imploring. “Because there is no one else who knows! A terrible thing happened and there is no acknowledgement or justice. There must be someone who understands, who… who mourns.”

“Lemme guess,” John said, taking out a cigarette. “You want me to find the original and bring it home.”

He was about to light up when he saw the way she was staring at him. Oh. Right. Smoke was probably bad for the art. Chastised, he put the lighter away.

When he’d done so, she said, “It is impossible, I think. The theft happened many, many years ago.”

“Well,” he said, stretching and shooting her his cockiest smirk, “it just so happens I like a challenge. Gimme a week, okay?”

0

It took him two months.

Two months of pulling in favours. Two months of bribery, blackmail, and burglary.

And now the _fucking thing_ wouldn’t fit through the door.

“Lift it higher!” Chas hissed, clutching one end.

“You lift it higher!” he growled, clutching the other.

“I can’t! I’ll do my back in!”

Rubbing her chin, Armita said, “I think – not certain, but I _think_ they brought it in through the window.”

Chas groaned like he’d been shot. John thought longingly of the cigarette waiting for him the moment he was done with this bloody place.

Lugging a massive painting through the second floor window of a popular gallery in the dead of night was the most physically taxing thing he’d done in a while. When it was finally back in its rightful place, he crumpled to the floor and remained there for several minutes.

“John? Not dead, are ya?” Chas queried, poking him.

“Grrhnn,” he replied.

Armita was gently weeping, her hands clasped under her chin. “Oh, look at it! Chas, come, see – beautiful, yes? The brushstrokes, the flow; just like I told you!”

“S’lovely,” Chas said with a smile, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and giving her a squeeze. “What d’you want us to do with the forgery?”

She glanced down at John. “Constantine – you can do magic, I hear?”

Ordinarily, turning a hundred-inch-wide, fifty-inch-high slab of wood and canvas into a cloud of paint-scented atoms would have been one of those flashy tricks that was more trouble than it was worth in the long run. With Armita’s psychic energy fuelling him, it cost no more than a migraine and a passing spasm in his legs.

“That was _brilliant_ ,” Chas breathed, enraptured, eyes shining like a kid at a carnival. “John, why don’t you do the cool stuff more often?”

Armita chuckled, patting Chas’s shoulder. “You’re a foolish young man, but very sweet. As I said before, you remind me of my husband. I’ll be very glad to see him again. Mister Fucking Gentleman – thank you.”

Beaming, she disappeared in a burst of golden light.

“That it, then?” said Chas.

“Yeah. That’s it. God, my knees hurt.”

“Mine too. Wanna go to the pub?”

“Only if you carry me there.”

**The end**


End file.
